


A Court of Lust and Ice

by warriorlorcan



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Ice Skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8854600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorlorcan/pseuds/warriorlorcan
Summary: Rhysand and Feyre have been ice skating partners ever since they could remember. They both feel the tension, but refuse to acknowledge it. Until one night…





	

The first time they skated together, Rhysand got tingles all over his body. Granted, they had been 10 years old, and the rink was _very_ cold. Their first time was definitely short of wonderful. It was full of awkward falls, a couple drops and frequently uneven footing. They couldn’t work together for shit. It took two months for them to successfully land a lift, and even longer for them to successfully start one. Practices were filled with angry screeches from Feyre and many a stressed _humpf_ from Rhys. 

After about two years, the pre-teens could fully complete a routine without falling. Their movements were robotic and square, nothing like the rounded and beautiful routines they watched in the Olympics. Their coach yelled at them for hours straight while they were on the rink, pushing them to be more fluid, to connect with one another.

They weren’t even teenagers yet, and the thought of being pressed up against one another was now disgusting. As Feyre began to grow, Rhys stayed the same. He had to lift weights every day in order for his small, still child-like body to lift a growing woman. But they never stopped practicing.

The second Rhys turned fifteen, he shot up like a weed. His body morphed from that of a boy to that of a man. His body was all hard lines and muscle, and for once it actually fit him. Feyre wasn’t oblivious to the sharp slant of his jaw line or the delicate curve of his cheekbones, but she’d never tell him, or anyone for that matter, she noticed anything different. Finally, his weight lifting actually began to make a difference. His body filled out, and all the lifts became simple. He didn’t even break a sweat while presenting Feyre above his head. Skating together was never the same after that year.

Rhys and Feyre got even closer. They were no longer just childhood best friends; their friendship was alive and throbbing at every minute. They were incredibly protective over one another, and it only helped them in the rink. They trusted each other whole-heartedly. Feyre was never worried about Rhys dropping her anymore, and Rhys couldn’t be worried about Feyre not landing a lift. Magazines and newspapers had begun to catch up to their rigorous practice schedule and their frequent competitions, which they started coming away from with medals each time. They described Feyre as the beautiful bird flown from Rhys’ hands, but he knew they were wrong. Feyre was a dagger; steel carefully tempered to be as light and as deadly as possible, beautiful even when killing. Feyre was more powerful than even him.

They had never told each other of their hidden feelings, both expecting nothing to come of it but awkwardness on the ice. Both had affairs apart from each other, but they never left each other alone, in the way that best friends cannot stand to be apart, and lovers cannot stand to not be touching. They comforted one another through heartbreak and the unfortunate numbness they occasionally felt towards others, through abuse and through what they thought was love, never leaving each other’s sides.

After years of watching over one another, they couldn’t stand it any more. They let themselves be tangled in the guilt they felt over wanting each other, along with their bare skin. It was all limbs and fists in hair and nails on backs and lips and teeth and tongue and screams and wanting. Waking up next to one another was the most beautiful sight either of them had seen. But it was just a game, another move they had to dance around on the ice, another checkmate that each held in hand but refused to acknowledge. They agreed it would never happen again.

That day at practice it was harder than usual to stay focused. Every time Rhys lifted his eyes to watch Feyre fly above him, cradled by his arms, he felt weak in the knees, his mind floating to thoughts of the night before, of the way her whole body had tightened around him, of the way her strong muscles felt under his hands. Feyre was no more focused, when she curved around his body, arching her back to connect her arms and legs around his middle, she thought of the way it had felt to have his nose tickling the inside of her thighs, the way her back arched when he finally entered her. Practice was full of heavy breathing and constant criticism from their coach.

Feyre’s skin tingled every time Rhys slid her along his body to set her down, every time their eyes connected, every time Rhys so much as twisted to look her way. She had to stay in the rink for a few hours after morning practice, skating circles around the edge to try and steady herself. Rhys went home and took a very, _very_ cold shower.

By the time they were 20, their skating careers had really taken off. They were lined up to be on the national team for the next winter Olympics, and they’d already won three world championships. They’d reverted back to their steady friendship, and had no more incidents like the first. They were a team, wholly devoted to winning and to creating a spectacle on the ice.

The night before their audition for the national team, which they’d already been told they’d make, but were worried for all the same, they snuck onto the ice without their coach to practice. They were fully clothed in their competition garb, sequins shining on both of their black costumes. Feyre’s hair was carefully tied into a bun, so she wouldn’t whack Rhys in the face during any of their turns, but her face was bare of any make up. Not that Rhys would ever admit it, but he liked seeing her this way, ready for anything, strong as iron.

They got through the first half of their routine without any problems; they seemed to be floating over the fresh ice. Their bodies moved in sync, every crescent moon backwards was taken together, every lift landed perfectly. Rhys’ hand was lightly rested on Feyre’s waist, guiding her through the movements, though they both knew she didn’t need any help. Until Feyre accidentally tumbled from Rhys’ arms, landing flat on her back on the wet ice. Rhys’ eyes widened and he crouched as fast as he could, asking her if she was okay, that he was sorry, asking what she needed. Feyre’s blue eyes gazed into Rhys’ violet ones, studying the worry engraved into his features.

“I’m okay.” She breathed, never taking her eyes off Rhys. His hands were lightly tracing the length of her body, searching for any injuries.

“Are you sure? I’m so sorry, Fey-“

“Rhysand. I am _okay_.” He finally brought his gaze to meet hers, and saw her eyes shining. His mouth fell open, letting himself watch her as she returned the gesture. Her hand moved to run through his hair, sending shivers down his spine. He was breathing hard, hands braced on either side of her shoulders, kneeling just to the side of her hips. “Rhys.”

Maybe it was the stress of the day that was to come, or maybe it was all the pent up energy the team had kept in check, but it was impossible for them to keep their hands off each other for the rest of that night. First, they let the ice soak their bodies through as they soared together, using a combination of skating tricks and tricks learned in other places to discover just exactly how to pleasure one another. They continued the ravaging again in the locker room. They barely fit in the shower stall, but the hot water felt heavenly on their frozen skin. Rhysand couldn’t take his eyes off of Feyre with her golden-bronze hair sticking to her skin, her eyes bright and sparkling under the florescent lights.

Feyre couldn’t stop touching him. His ragged breaths were like an angel screaming into her ear, finally showing her the steps to heaven. She ran her hands across the firm planes of his chest, his strong arms, the arms that held her every morning and night, though only in the way she wanted them to once before, his muscular thighs, thick from blades on ice, from running and weight lifting.

Rhysand’s apartment was next. The bed, followed by another shower, followed the couch. They laughed the whole time, joking about how they should sleep for their audition tomorrow, about how absurd everything was. But both parties knew that this had been a long time coming, but was too concerned that the other would see this as a one night obligation, not the night of a lifetime, one that both of them would like to have repeated.

When Rhys woke up, the sheets next to him were still warm, but Feyre was nowhere to be found. Rhys stalked through his apartment, slightly disappointed, but not surprised. He found a sticky note posted to his fridge, decorated with Feyre’s curly handwriting.

_Nesta called_. Feyre’s sister. _See you on the ice._ Rhysand released a breath. She hadn’t left of her own volition. He tugged on a set of clothes and drove to the rink, taking his time in the showers and locker room before he entered onto the ice. The zamboni had just been through, and the ice was shining, smooth and beautiful. Feyre was waiting for him, her hair curled and pinned into what looked like a crown above her head. Her eyes were darkened with eyeliner and her lips were painted pink.

“Are you ready?” Her blue eyes were narrowed as she glared at the tips of her skates, inspecting them as she did before every practice, before every routine even.

“Always,” he muttered. Feyre began to move into position. “Feyre, wait. I-“

“I know, Rhys. You think it was a mis-“ He cut her off, just as she had to him.

“No. Don’t tell me it was a mistake. Never in a million years would I call that a mistake. You’re perfect, Feyre. I’ve waited too many years to tell you this, and now is as good as any. I don’t want to be just your teammate, Feyre. I want to be _everything_. I want to be your best friend, and your lover, and everything in between. I want you to be my partner on and off the ice.” He heard Feyre inhale and he paused, forcing out a shaky breath. It was silent for a moment, only the sound of Feyre toeing the ice rang through the rink.

“Okay,” she said. Casually, like it was nothing.

“Okay?”

“Stop second guessing yourself for once, you prick. I said okay, I meant it.” Rhysand’s face morphed into a dazzling grin. He scooped her up, skating with her in his arms, twirling her around the rink. They had never performed better than they did that afternoon.


End file.
